


The Admiral's First Jazz Fest

by afrakaday



Series: Beignet!verse [4]
Category: Battlestar Galactica, Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: F/M, New Orleans, crawfish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-02
Updated: 2012-07-02
Packaged: 2017-11-09 01:42:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/449855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afrakaday/pseuds/afrakaday
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Laissez les bons temps roulez:  free-spirit Laura takes her new husband to New Orleans for his first Jazz Fest experience.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Admiral's First Jazz Fest

  


_Maple Leaf Bar - Thursday_

Bill and Laura sat on the patio of the Maple Leaf Bar, nursing plastic cups of Abita Purple Haze and trying to ignore the woman in the corner who was convinced that a bonsai bush was actually Justin Bieber. Lively brass instrumentation poured out of the small club, the brash tones surrounding them in the sticky night.

“I can’t believe how little this place has changed over the years,” Laura said, looking around the overgrown patio with its cheap plastic chairs and two ashtrays to a table. She’d been coming down for Jazz Fest off and on for the better part of thirty years, usually with friends, occasionally with boyfriends if they shared her taste in music. Bill had never been before. But after he had proposed to her in the French Quarter, forever conferring the city “most romantic place in the world” status as far as she was concerned, she knew she’d have to introduce him to the unique cultural experience offered by the spring music festival. It was no coincidence that she’d picked a wedding date that would allow them to honeymoon during the first week of May.

The retired Admiral stood out as slightly stiff among this relaxed crowd, despite his casual attire of pale linen pants and the lightweight button-down shirt printed with abstract tubas Laura had bought for him. It was the hair, Laura decided. She had encouraged him to let it grow out, as she loved to run her fingers through it, but he’d insisted on a regulation-length short cut for their wedding. “Can’t have long hippie hair if I’m wearing my uniform,” he’d explained practically. She sighed. A couple more drinks and he’d lose the vaguely military stance; for now, though, he looked like he was sitting at attention.

“Anyone sitting here?” a dreadlocked girl in a tie-dye maxidress asked Bill in a friendly tone, gesturing to the two empty chairs at Bill and Laura’s table.

He shook his head. “No, feel free,” he said. The girl and her companion, a pale man with puffy dark hair and a t-shirt with the words “Fess Jazztival” written across it, sat down easily and exchanged smiles with Laura, leaning back and drinking in the fresh-ish air afforded by the patio.

“Enjoying your Fest so far?” the guy asked.

Laura nodded. “We just got here today. Had dinner at Jacques-Imo’s and couldn’t resist the siren call of the Leaf.”

“Yum. Love those jalapeno corn muffins,” afro-hair guy drawled.

“Big Sam is really tearing it up tonight,” the girl said excitedly. “I heard Trombone Shorty might sit in for the third set. That’s gonna be ah- _maze_ -ing!”

Laura smiled, though she knew she and Bill would never make it to the evening’s third set of music, which she guessed would start sometime around 1am. “I’m really looking forward to catching Bonerama at the fairgrounds tomorrow,” she said instead. To Bill’s sputter of beer across the open-grate table, she said, “What? The trombone is one of my favorite instruments.” She gave him an enigmatic smile and slid her hand along his thigh.

Bill cleared his throat. “This is actually my first Jazz Fest,” he said to the kids across the table. “My wife”-- he grasped her hand in his lap and gave it a squeeze-- “is a big fan, decided it would be the perfect place to honeymoon.”

“Oh, cool,” said the girl. “Yeah, you’ll love it. We come every year. The start of the summer festival circuit, you know?”

Bill had no idea what she meant by “summer festival circuit,” and Laura had only a vague notion, but they nodded anyway. The guy broke in. “So what nighttime shows are you checking out this weekend? We’ve got tickets for Instruments ‘a Comin’ at Tip’s, a Psychedelic Breakfast breakfast show at the Howlin Wolf, the Funky Meters...” he trailed off, thinking. “What else?” he asked his companion.

“Uh...Galactic, then a Ween late-night show, I think. Yeah. What about y'all?”

 _What part of_ honeymoon _did they not understand_ , Laura wondered, mentally cringing at the idea of dragging Bill to an all-night jamband concert. Maybe she wasn’t giving him enough credit; he’d come a long way in his recreational bona fides since retirement. “We were planning on going to the fairgrounds each day, then playing it by ear at night. We’ll probably go to Rock ‘n Bowl at least once,” Laura said. “And we’ll see what’s going on at Frenchmen Street.”

“You should totally go see this band Hobson’s Choice at Checkpoint Charlie’s if you’re heading over that way,” the guy suggested.

Laura was pretty sure Checkpoint Charlie’s was also a laundromat, but she filed away the information for future reference anyway.

The girl started rummaging through her embroidered cross-body bag, then pulled out what looked like a corduroy sunglasses case. To Bill’s utter surprise, she slid a small glass pipe and rolled-up plastic baggie out of it and started packing a bowl with fragrant herb. “Gimme that lighter?” she asked the guy.

Dreadlock girl took the lighter from him and offered it with the bowl to Laura as Bill drained the rest of his beer, peering at the exchange over the rim of the cup. Laura glanced at him, smiled slyly and shrugged. “Don’t mind if I do.”

“I’m just gonna go get another drink,” Bill announced. “Nice talking to you both.” He got up, then leaned down to kiss Laura on the cheek as she held the flame over the green. “Come find me at the bar when you’re done?” he whispered, trailing his hand down her back.

Laura nodded, eyes closed as she held her breath. Bill had walked back inside by the time she exhaled a bluish plume that hung over the table. The lady in the corner was still talking to no one about bonsai Justin Bieber, oblivious to everything.

 

_Fair Grounds Race Course & Slots - Friday_

"Bill, I promise you, everyone wears hats at the fairgrounds. You'll fit right in." Laura firmly placed the wide-brim straw hat back on Bill's head and nodded her approval.

"If you say so," he said doubtfully, taking in his reflection in the mirror on the back of their hotel room's door. He tucked a pair of sunglasses into his front pocket and held out his arm. "Shall we?"

She ducked under the brim of his hat, tilting her head to give him a quick kiss before donning her own woven cowboy hat. "To the festival."

They took the new Canal Streetcar down to the racetrack at City Park. The car was full of other festivalgoers, most wearing hats, some carrying flags affixed to collapsible poles and others with balloons. One person had a set of four silver mylar letter balloons spelling out the word “FUNK” that had come to rest against the roof of the streetcar. Laura laughed. “The musicians will love that,” she whispered to Bill, pointing them out to him.

Before long they reached the entrance to the park, site of the New Orleans Jazz and Heritage Festival. People streamed toward the gates from all directions, ready to kick off the fest's second weekend.

"It's already so hot. People really stay out here all day?" Bill asked, pulling his light blue t-shirt away from his chest.

"There are mist tents if it gets to be too much for you," she said, much cooler than him in her airy linen sundress and sandals. "The old people like to hang out there."

He shot her a warning look that lost its impact when she returned it with her teasing grin. "Just kidding, darling."

She rummaged through her tote bag, emblazoned with the educational industry’s standby slogan "Reading is Fun!" in Mardi Gras colors of purple, green, and gold, along with the dates of the convention at which she'd received it. Triumphantly, she pulled out two wristbands and fastened one of them to his wrist. "There, sir, is your Brass Pass."

"My what?" he asked, examining it.

"Pass to all the days of the festival. It'll get us into a special tent for drinks and snacks, too." She snapped the remaining band into place over her own wrist. "Remember we decided if we were going to do this for our honeymoon, we were going to do it in style?"

He didn’t have a chance to answer, as they reached the gate and Laura held her tote bag open for the requisite but cursory inspection. Bagless Bill followed once she got waved through.

"So this is it, huh." Bill glanced around at the large white tents that, by their signage, hosted gospel and jazz music respectively, then onto the rows of much smaller tents of artists displaying their wares. Turning his attention from the physical structures to the people milling around, he realized Laura had been entirely truthful in her representation to him that most people wore hats. As the sun beat down, he was grateful to be among their ranks.

“This is it,” she agreed. “My happy place.” From her smile, he knew her words were true.

They meandered the pathways from one stage to the next, occasionally stopping for a bit to listen to the different artists. Theresa Andersson was impressive, a one-woman show with a violin and looping machine, while Donald Harrison’s smooth sax provided a relaxing moment as they lingered at the side of the Congo Square stage.

“Let’s get a drink and get set up over by the Gentilly stage for Bonerama,” Laura finally suggested. “Bruce Hornsby and the Noisemakers are playing there now. We can catch the end of his set and then move up to the front.”

Winding their way through the crowds to the concession stands, Bill bought them both large icy glasses of lemonade and they continued to the secondary stage. Laura took a look at the grid-like schedule. “You sure you don’t want to check out Mystikal?” she asked with a sly smile.

Bill was clueless. “What’s Mystikal?”

Laura began to dance, even as they walked. “You know the song...‘Shake ya ass! But watch ya self, show me what you workin’ with.’”

“Must have missed that one,” said Bill. “But you can show me what you’re working with any time.”

Bill seemed to enjoy the eclectic but sophisticated rock piano of Bruce Hornsby and his band, as she’d suspected he would. They’d laid down the thin blanket Laura carried in her tote bag and stretched out in the sun, enjoying their lemonades and the festive atmosphere. The musician busted out an accordion for a roof-raising, Cajun-influenced final number that got everyone, including Bill and Laura, out of their seats and into the groove. Laura kicked off her shoes to better dance on the blanket and motioned for Bill to do the same.

After the band played their final notes and left the stage, the crowd started to disperse, and Laura reached out for Bill's hand so they won't be separated from one another by the stream of humanity. “Now’s our chance to stake out a spot close to the stage,” she said. They folded up the blanket, end-to-end with military precision, and made their way toward the front of the stage by way of a sprinkler set up along the side. The droplets of water felt refreshing, even if they did evaporate on her skin almost immediately, and Laura was loath to leave the spray’s aquatic embrace. Bill finally wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her away.

“You’re getting soaked,” he said, looking pointedly at the front of her dress.

She giggled. “Feels good, though,” she murmured, pressing her wet clothing against his broad chest. When she pulled away, a Laura-shaped imprint remained on his shirt.

The crowd had thinned enough that they were easily able to stake out enough real estate to spread out their blanket about ten feet from the stage, though many groups remained that were obviously set up to serve as a home base for the entire day, judging from their umbrellas, flags, chairs, and not infrequently, children running around the set-ups.

“It’s fun to come here with a big group,” Laura said to Bill, trying to keep her wistfulness at a minimum as she looked out over the grassy field, remembering times with old friends, joined by her sisters in the couple of years after they finished college. “With a critical mass of about four people, you can set up a blanket for the day and still be able to take turns wandering around and check out other things without needing to take all your stuff.”

Bill looked around the immediate vicinity; all they had with them was the blanket on which they sat, their empty lemonade cups, and Laura’s tote bag, which held the schedule and some SPF 85 sunscreen that Bill had been adamant about applying to Laura approximately once an hour. “Is that why we’re traveling so light?”

She leaned in to kiss him. “Mmm. You are all I need. Just you.” When she pulled back, mindful that they had a potential audience behind them, she noticed that the next band’s crew was setting up the five-trombone rig. “Let’s go stand by the stage for a while.”

Bill was relaxed in their current location but couldn’t deny Laura’s enthusiasm, so he followed her up to the steel barriers erected to keep the crowd back from the stage. He leaned his arms on the rail, watching the roadies move various pieces of amplification equipment around and carefully place battered trombones on stands. "You'll love it, Bill," Laura assured him. "They do all kinds of fun covers. The Beatles, Led Zeppelin. I once saw the frontman do Clapton's solo from 'While My Guitar Gently Weeps' on his trombone."

Bill had to admit that did sound pretty appealing. Laura knew he was a sucker for Clapton.

"Hey! It's the honeymooners!"

Bill turned around at the same time as Laura. The deadlocked girl, followed by her guy, was approaching with a grin on her face, the apples of her cheeks disappearing beneath oversized plastic sunglass frames.

"Hello again,” she said with a slight tip of her wide-brimmed hat. “Sorry we never properly introduced ourselves last night. I'm Sasha, and this is Enzo."

"Laura and Bill," Laura said with a little wave. "Nice to see you again."

"Likewise," said Enzo. "We saw Mark Mullins at Instruments 'a Comin' last night and definitely wanted to check out his band's set today."

"What is this concert?" Laura asked. "I haven't heard of it before."

"It's a benefit to raise money to buy instruments for New Orleans public schools," Sasha explained. "A bunch of local musicians started it a couple years ago. It’s basically a big jam session."

"That's wonderful!" said Laura. "I'm a school administrator, I know how badly music programs’ budgets have been affected in the past few years.”

“Yeah, they have the student musicians sit in, too. It’s really nice,” Sasha said. The crowd was growing thicker and the stage had been set. Sasha turned to her companion. “Hey, I was going to hit the Pot ‘o Gold and grab a snack before the Bonerama set starts. Can you hold down this spot?” she said to Enzo.

“Of course, babe,” he said, kissing her cheek. “Grab me a beer while you’re out?”

Sasha nodded and reached into his front pants pocket to remove a few bills.

At the mention of the facilities, Laura felt the inconvenient call of nature. The extra-large lemonade had gone down entirely too easily. “You know, that sounds like an excellent idea. Mind if I join you, Sasha?” Laura gave Bill an apologetic look.

“Sure thing,” Sasha agreed. “Don’t worry, Bill. I’ll bring your lady back in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.” The two women turned and began weaving their way through the crowd.

Enzo slouched backward, leaning against the rail and looking at Bill with a measure of mild insolence. He was still wearing the same “Fess Jazztival” t-shirt he’d had on last night, but at some point had discarded his shoes, leaving his feet covered in dirt. In the light of day, he looked much sleazier than he had on the patio of the Maple Leaf the previous evening. Bill looked behind him and fought the urge to retreat on the pretext of preserving the integrity of his and Laura’s textile boundary; the blanket would keep, gradual encroachment of fest-goers notwithstanding, and Bill shuddered at the thought of Enzo’s grimy bum coming into contact with the safe haven of the plaid blanket. Enzo broke the awkward silence first.

“So what d’ya make of the Fest so far?” he drawled. “Seems like it’s not really your scene.”

“Can’t complain. The music’s been excellent,” Bill said, his spine stiffening defensively. “And I always enjoy visiting New Orleans.”

“You in the military or something?” Enzo asked, looking down to Bill’s clasped hands. “Kinda have that look to ya.”

“Retired,” Bill said shortly. “Navy.”

Enzo nodded knowingly. “I used to work off-shore, myself.”

From the way he left it at that, as well as his shifty-eyed appearance, Bill sensed that Enzo had gotten into something unsavory on one of the rigs; he'd washed out enough of Enzo's type over the years. The girl seemed innocuous enough, but Bill wouldn’t trust this guy as far as he could throw him. It wasn’t just the pot, which the previous night had only turned Laura into a gigglier, dreamier version of herself, and Bill honestly didn’t really mind, especially when she burrowed into his chest on the cab ride back to their hotel and adorably waxed philosophical as they gazed out the window at the pink and purple sky. At some base level, this guy just rubbed Bill the wrong way. He hoped he and Laura weren’t forming some kind of Jazz Fest alliance with the younger couple. _”A critical mass of about four people,”_ she’d said. He thought they’d been doing just fine on their own.

“So what do you do now?” Bill asked, just to be polite.

“Oh, a little of this, a little of that,” Enzo replied with a smirk. “Travel around. Work the festivals.”

With a sudden flash, Bill remembered reading something in the _Wall Street Journal_ about the cottage industry that would pop up around, for example, Grateful Dead tours, and that it continued to be a thing with respect to contemporary jam bands. He had a feeling Enzo wasn’t selling veggie burritos or grilled cheese in parking lots, though.

Luckily for Bill, the ladies returned before he was forced to attempt more tortured conversation with the shady character.

“Hey!” Laura approached the stage, hands full, and handed Bill a Miller High Life tall boy. “Thought you could use some refreshment.” Sasha did the same for Enzo, presenting him a Foster’s out of the twelve-pack cardboard box she held in the crook of her arm.

Both women were holding small parcels wrapped in foil. “What’s in there?” Bill asked, curious. All the food he’d seen people walking around with thus far had looked so good, and the hotel's continental breakfast suddenly seemed very distant indeed.

“Crawfish bread,” Laura said with a smile. “It’s delicious.”

“Enzo, honey, I ran into Racetrack and Skulls out toward the back and told them we’d join them. Thanks for holding down this spot anyway, though.” Sasha started to tug at his arm, but he swatted her away with his free hand as he took a long pull of the beer.

“All right, all right. I’m coming,” Enzo groused, holding the cool can against his forehead.

“Racetrack and Skulls, huh? Sound like interesting people,” Laura said, clearly curious.

Enzo laughed and lowered his beer. “Racetrack’s a bookie and Skulls is a voodoo priest. They’re quite a couple. Got a flag with a bunch of decapitated rubber chickens on top of the pole, if you wanna find us later.” He looked at Sasha. “Are they...?” He simulated puffing on a joint.

Sasha nodded, grinning.

“Okay then. Vámonos, arriba,” he said, taking the box of beers from Sasha. “Nice seeing you both again.”

“Enjoy your Fest, Laura.” Sasha winked at Laura and appeared to ogle her chest, which did not go unnoticed by Bill.

“I’m sure I will,” Laura responded, taking Bill’s arm and following the younger couple away from the stage to return to their blanket. Enzo and Sasha were soon swallowed up by the crowd. Hopefully never to be heard from again, Bill thought uncharitably.

Bill and Laura eased back down to the ground to continue waiting for Bonerama to start their set. Laura began peeling back the foil from the crawfish bread while Bill pondered the drops of condensation rolling down the sides of his beer.

“Laura?”

“Yes, Bill?” Her tongue poked out through her teeth as she concentrated on keeping the foil in one piece and the melted cheese intact with the bread, nearly distracting Bill from his own objective.

“Why did Sasha wink at you like that just now?”

Laura’s head flew up and she looked at him guiltily. “Um...”

He cupped her chin and looked into her eyes; she didn’t look high at all. “Well?”

“Okay, okay!” Laura leaned over toward him, giving him a look down the front of her dress. “I may have bought Sasha some beers and crawfish bread in exchange for a few...herbal cigarettes she had on hand.”

Bill had been enjoying the view, but it wasn’t until his cerebral cortex finally the processed the final phrase of her verbal confession that he noticed the joints tucked into the left cup of her bra. “I see.”

“Do you care?” Laura’s lips pursed, ready to pout.

He smiled. “Nope.” Reconsidering, he added, “As long as we don’t have to hang out around that Enzo guy any more.”

She giggled. “Deal. And I’m glad you’re on board with embracing the local culture.” She snuggled into his side and placed the unwrapped crawfish bread across their joined laps. “Because Ziggy Marley’s next, and I’d prefer us to enjoy the enhanced experience.”

He chuckled and leaned in to kiss her temple. “As long as you don’t get me in trouble.”

“It’s Jazz Fest,” she said lightly, feeding him a piece of cheesy, crawfish-laden goodness. “Laissez les bons temps roulez.”

 

_Strolling the Fly - Saturday_

"The water looks so murky," Laura said dreamily as they walked arm-in-arm along the levee. “So different from our lake at home. This is all swirling mud and sludge. And it’s not really so mighty here, either.”

Bill had to agree. After several months of drought conditions, unusual for New Orleans, the Mississippi flowed low against the reconstructed levees. But not so low as to prevent a steady stream of barges and tugs coming in and out of the port, he noticed.

They’d gotten up early to head uptown to Audubon Park, where they walked half a lap, cafe au laits in hand, around the park’s shaded jogging path before entering the zoo. They’d stayed only long enough to see the giraffes, and for the Meters’ song “They All Asked for You” to become immutably stuck in Bill’s head. He’d been singing it all morning and even as noontime approached, was wont to break out into the verses: “The monkeys asked, the tigers asked, they even inquired about you!” Laura was still giggling each time it happened, though she was looking forward to getting back to the fairgrounds and exposing Bill to some new tunes.

The Fly was one of Laura’s favorite spots in New Orleans, well off the tourist-beaten path and a favorite retreat of the students and faculty of the universities just across St. Charles Avenue. A wide swath of well-manicured grass, shaded with magnolia trees and ancient oaks, abutted the Mississippi River along one of the levee’s highest points, creating a dramatic landscape to watch the river traffic and enjoy the green space. It also contained New Orleans’ highest-elevated point, at fifteen feet above sea level, a man-made heap of grass-covered backfill used by parents to teach their children what a “hill” is.

“You want to sit for a moment before we head out of here?” Laura asked Bill, glancing over at him as they strolled. The fly wasn’t crowded, and she saw a choice tree with gnarled low-hanging branches that would afford them some privacy as they looked out over the river.

He nodded his agreement and turned in the direction of the tree. He sat down first, leaning his back against the wide trunk and gesturing for Laura to lean against him. She tucked herself between his legs and sighed happily as they both looked out over the water.

Laura’s hand rested on his kneecap, and she began moving it in small circles, delighting in the texture of his bare skin and the peacefulness of the moment, so different from the festival, which, though possibly could lay claim to having the most laid-back atmosphere in the continental United States, was still loud and crowded.

“Do you miss it?” she asked him after a barge’s bone-shattering horn broke their tranquil moment. “Your ship?”

"No." The whisper of his words across her ear was followed by a gentle kiss. "I'd say I came out ahead in trading the Old Girl in and getting you."

"But are you bored?" Laura pressed. "Anxious?"

"Neither," he promised. "I am completely happy and relaxed to be right here, with you, and not on a ship trawling the North Atlantic, believe me."

"Good." She snuggled into his chest, wrapping his arms around her. It was hot and sticky, but in the shade the contract was tolerable, and his physical presence immensely gratifying as she thought about the prolonged periods apart they'd endured over the past few years. "I'm so glad to have you all to myself, Bill."

"As I will be too, once your school year finally ends," he rejoined. "But let's not think about your demon charges, or all the work they're not doing while the boss lady is lighting up and funking off."

She ignored his dig at her middle schoolers and smiled. "Oh, very good use of 'funk off,'" she complimented him. "We might have to get you a t-shirt that says that."

"And where would I wear such a shirt?" he asked practically.

"I don't know. The beach, the gym. Next year's Jazz Fest. To do yardwork in."

"Well, if you can find me one, I'll wear it," he allowed. "Just like this thing." He plucked at his vibrant hibiscus-printed shirt and grinned.

"You love it, lover," she said, twisting in his arms so she could kiss his nose. “Now let’s get up and head over to the Fairgrounds. Our Fest isn’t over yet.”

 

_...TBC?_  



End file.
